


Righted

by orphan_account



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Divergence AU, Dubious Consent, F/F, Non-Explicit, Porn Battle, The Pairing Is the Warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-31 00:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/337827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mild canon AU, based on Mrs Coulter's attempt to take the alethiometer from Lyra at Bolvangar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Righted

Marisa Coulter had never been above ripping apart other people's children. Lyra, half-clever Lyra who could tell a story about Gobblers and Cutters one day and forget half the details the next day, certainly near all of it by the time she could reach any civilization in the forsaken North, she was not worried about either; Lyra only grew stronger and quicker and less prone to raw outbursts, like a tool in the forge. Marisa hadn't expected to find her and her artifact here, but it was just as well. She was a melted thing now, waiting to be made, Pantalaimon crouched small at her side.

Her success suddenly so close, the cloth felt smoother in her hands than it should have. Lyra snatched it back and her daemon crushed it against her chest with his body. 

"Lyra, Lyra," she murmured, like any mother reprimanding her child. "We can keep this to ourselves, but you must be quite careful about carrying around a thing like this."

"I en't— I mean, am not— afraid of others seeing. Just you," Lyra said. Marisa could not miss her lapse into vulgar speech. While Lyra had her shoulders squared and legs resolutely spread, as if she had actually managed to teach the girl anything subtle during her stay in London, Pantalaimon kept changing beside her, mouse to pine marten to squirrel, his tail always drooping. Ozymandias stretched out a hand to pat him on the leg, a touch he submitted to in silence. How foolish of the staff to want to intercise her! Lyra without a daemon was neutralised, but Lyra with Pan was all the more vulnerable, too vulnerable to bear.

"And why are you afraid of anything, my dear? We'll be going back to the College, although we'll have to dismiss the professor who gave you such nonsensical ideas. Here, however did you keep this so long," she said. A cluck at her monkey had him tugging the alethiometer bag away. Lyra shuddered and tried to keep it to herself, but she was inhibited by long habit against touching Ozymandias, and he had no such qualms about scratching her shift open to take the device. There was only a brief scuffle before it was in her hand and Lyra sprawled across the bed, skirt half off, too weak to sit back up. The tea must be doing its work, Marisa thought.

"You can't," Lyra cried. Oh, a chance encounter from losing her sense of judgement forever and she was so naive. She had to keep Lyra until she was ready to face the world as it was. Pan, unaffected, had transformed back into a polecat and looked about ready to try his claws on her, but Lyra herself still believed in good people doing good things.

Marisa, as she often admitted to herself, was neither a good person nor one who concerned herself too much with the morality of individual acts. She was far more real than the specters Lyra thought would save her. 

She bent over so only Ozymandias could hear her. Inches from Lyra's chest, where she could almost feel Lyra's stomach quivering, and said, "I think you'll need to fetch the cedarwood." At Lyra herself, "You would be so much cleaner without it, child. I'll make sure you grow up right without the influence of such wicked and confusing things. But I must thank you for keeping it safe."

Her daemon swung away to the drawers. Lyra ignored him, her arms shaking like the terror of the last few days had tumbled on her all at once. Her shift hitched up with her breaths, the faster and the more uneven as Marisa patted her leg until Oz returned with a wooden cup. "Would you like something to drink, Pantalaimon?"

"Don't want nothing," he said, but came forward claws sheathed to sniff anyways, to see if it seemed dangerous. She could almost feel sorry for him, his loyalty to his Lyra being the flaw that would bring about his downfall. Sure enough, as soon as he breathed it in he yawned, and settled by the girl's head with eyelids half-closed. Marisa brought her wrist as close to him as she dared, noted how much (how little) Lyra stiffened, and ran her fingers through Lyra's curls. Lyra relaxed into her hand. She was probably remembering a time of gilt frames and porcelain boxes, of hot water and the warmth of sleeping cold nights by her adored Scholar's side. Good, good, she wanted those to be the memories Lyra had in mind.

Ozymandias chittered and walked his black fingers over Pan's back. The daemon didn't move at all.

"What would you like now, then, Lyra?" Marisa's fingers drifted lower. She could feel Lyra's breaths as far up as her clavicle, and the skin only grew warmer as she stroked farther down. 

"I dunno," Lyra said, drowsiness clear in her voice. "But you— have to give that back, I promised—"

"Don't worry, dear, let me deal with this." Pan stirred and shifted only a little to avoid Marisa's touch when she leaned in and kissed Lyra softly on the cheek, then her chin, then over her jugular, gratified by the heartbeat Lyra skipped then. She continued back up her neck, then down over her heart; finally she pressed her lips to the skin of Lyra's breast bared by their earlier struggle for the alethiometer. Her fingers traced the hole in the cloth and stretched so the tear expanded. Another kiss and the cloth separated entirely. Nothing, then, under Marisa's eyes but Lyra herself, closed eyes, hands coming up to tug at her own.

She caught the hand and rubbed at the delicate fingers. They were as breakable as the rest of her, but Marisa could make her strong. Would, in time, fate permitting.

"Dear Lyra, let me deal with this."

Neither Lyra nor Pan protested while Marisa unbuttoned her own shirt, and neither said a word when she lowered herself onto them and took the child's unexpected gift. The wind howled outside Bolvangar, but none of them were listening.

**Author's Note:**

> Mrs Coulter's daemon is never named in the novels; since Pullman didn't provide a name, I'm using the name from the BBC radio adaptation.
> 
> All kinds of feedback are welcome and appreciated.


End file.
